The Demons
by calciseptine
Summary: Sasuke/Naruto. Sasuke and the other man are prisoners with unique cages. For Faor.


**Story Title**: The Demons  
**Rated**: R for dub-con and dark themes  
**Status**: Complete // 600+  
**Summary**: [Sasuke/Naruto] Sasuke and the other man are prisoners with unique cages.  
**Steve's Notes**: A drabble request written for **o0o_faor_o0o**, my waifu and beta. This is one of those alternate ending scenarios that intrigues the hell out of me, but I really hope doesn't happen.  
**Disclaimer**: _Naruto_ © Kishimoto Masashi

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Sasuke doesn't believe in stupid things like luck or fate or karma; those are mentalities used as crutches for the weak, the kind of people that don't work hard enough, push hard enough, or do everything in their power to get what they want. Sasuke never believed that his future was based on the whim of luck, never assumed that it was his _destiny_ to avenge his massacred clan (and then his wronged brother), never thought that karma intervened at any point to smooth out the uneven planes of suffering in his life. What Sasuke has accomplished—what he has bled and sweat and cried for—has been because of his willingness to make sacrifices.

"You look fucking retarded," a voice besides him growls, and Sasuke's eyes flicker up, and are caught in a sly, familiar stare. "You're _thinking_ again, aren't you?"

The words roll easily off Sasuke's tongue. "You make it sound so difficult, _dobe_."

A decade ago that two-syllable word would have gotten him an indignant shout and a fist in the gut. Now it gets him a slow, predatory smile that gleams in the moonlight like the killing edge of Sasuke's ninjatou. "There are better things to do than think, _teme_."

A long, muscular leg covered in fine gold hair slips over his waist, and a heavy weight—a weight that is more than a tall frame with broad shoulders and tight sinew—settles atop him. There's a forearm against his throat, teeth and tongue at his chest, and a hand scratching down his abdomen to the dip between his legs. He nearly lets the gasp in his throat bubble to the surface as a nail threatens the slit of his cock—and a laugh, a dark, mocking thing, follows.

"You think you can hide those sounds," the other man teases as his finger goes down his length. "You think that I can't hear your heart stutter or smell the spike of your adrenaline. And you call me the idiot."

Sasuke bares his blunt teeth and puts a cruel fist in gold hair, twisting harshly. The action is rewarded with a bite against his collarbone that draws the sticky tack of blood and sizzles along the nerves of his spine. "Once an idiot, always an idiot. Now put your mouth to better use."

Years about, there would have been hollow complaining—now there is just a smug acquiescence and a hot, slick tongue meandering down the tense length of Sasuke's body. "Watch your teeth," Sasuke snarls moments before he past the lips, the incisors, the hard palate, and the soft palate, pushing into the throat. His fingers convulse once, twice before finding purchase again in the sensitive hairs on the back of the man's sweat drenched neck, nails scratching red welts into his skin that will disappear in the space of a curse.

"Fuck," Sasuke spits as his hips undulate into that hot mouth. The other man doesn't even bother to control the stiff jerks of Sasuke's hips, instead breathing hard through his nose and fisting his own erection in one hand. Neither of them last long—the other man comes first, moaning low in his throat, and Sasuke pulls out to defile that tan, scarred face as he grits out, "_Take it, Naruto_."

The other man takes it, red eyes staring deep into Sasuke's own red eyes from underneath the slash of carbon-black lashes. Then, as Sasuke's fingers unravel, the other man says, "I'm not him, anymore." Then, mockingly, "_Idiot_."

Sasuke doesn't believe in luck or fate or karma. What he believes in is the consequence of action—an unbroken seal, a lost fight, and eyes that could tether a demon—but if sometimes he thinks that this is his punishment, to have the shell of what he could have had if he _only_ stopped to _think_—well, then maybe he is the real idiot, after all.

* * *

end.


End file.
